


Aftercare

by gaialux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, Community: spnkink_meme, Dominance, Edgeplay, M/M, Power Play, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:51:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Intense scene (includes edgeplay), schmoopy aftercare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftercare

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kink prompt: Dean pushes Sam too far during a (very intense) scene and realizes only once the scene is over that Sam is really injured. Cue angst and schmoopy aftercare.
> 
> Supernatural does not belong to me. This piece of fiction was written for entertainment purposes only, no profit is gained.

He’s got Sam spread-eagle on the bed, arms and legs tied to shotty little bedposts with the four belts they own between them. He doesn’t trust motels for this, never has, but Sam insisted. Bitched until Dean threw him onto the bed, held down his limbs, and wrapped a shirt around his eyes. At one point in the past he found Sam looking around online for these  _real_  toys. Dean just snorted, snapped the laptop closed, and proceeded to fuck Sam until he saw stars. Besides, he thinks there’s some  _authenticity_ when using things he finds in the car. Like the knives and too-many zippo lighters stashed in every spare piece of space.   
  
Fire, it’s a hunters best friend. Also became something they relied on during these scenes. Sam, he’s more broken than he’s ever gonna say. Never talks in the car, just clears his throat and stares out the window to watch roads after roads pass by. Hunts like his soul’s still gone, a thought Dean doesn’t like to dwell on but, sometimes, when he’s in the middle of this and staring down at Sam with his jagged breaths and stilled body, it’s hard not to consider everything about their past.  
  
Mostly just Sam, who isn’t hallucinating and isn’t bitching about something –  _anything_. He’s quiet, palatable, and Dean doesn’t want to like this but he does. When Sam’s just there and, for once, he’s not going anywhere.  _Can’t_  go anywhere. Dean’s choice whether or not his brother starts running. So he can just continue to watch his body, overgrown and perfect all in one, coated with flecks of sweat and dark, dark marks from where he’s held the lighter long enough for Sam to let out a hiss.  
  
Over every scar he trailed it, held it long enough to know it’s starting to burn. Asks Sam if it hurts. Gets no response. Does it a few more times and Sam’s stays silent. He wanders up toward Sam’s chest again, zippo lighter flicking open, shut, open under his fingers. Flames flicker and die and he holds it over Sam’s skin at one of the many scars. He knows them all. This one’s stretching from top of his ribs to shoulder. Demon threw him into a pile of rubble. Has three scars like it on his back for the same reason.  
  
Dean slowly reaches the lighter lower, watching as sweat beads out over the raised silver mark. He watches Sam’s face as he moves the flame lower, sees Sam tense just slightly when skin and fire combine. It’s less of a reaction than in the past, and Dean holds longer. Actually wants to see his brother’s face contort in pain. Because this is scaring him, this lack of emotion lately is just terrifying.

He thinks Sam must be able to see something, prepare himself for the hit on skin. He pulls the lighter away quickly, watches a shudder run through Sam and feels one in himself. He’s been hard as long as this has been going on. Strokes himself once, twice through his jeans, eyes on Sam hoping for some sort of response. Nothing. His hand drops away and instead finds its way to his waistband, pulls out one of those knives they’ve kept stabbed into the impala’s trunk.   
  
When he lifts it up Sam doesn’t move, so Dean tests his theory. Twists the blade toward Sam’s face, traces it ever so lightly across the fabric of his own shirt. Absolutely no movement. None. He knows that Sam can get lost in his mind, and tries to tell himself it’s just this. Just Sam enjoying this, he still knows what’s going on. Dean throws the knife away, letting it clatter onto the chipped bedside table. Sam doesn’t do so much as turn his head.  
  
Dean reaches across to feel Sam’s wrists, tugs on the belts. No response. He tightens it a notch, moves around the bed to tighten the other. Sam’s pulled further and Dean watches the muscles ripple and taunt in his brother’s arms. Veins are visible, the marks from the fire obvious. They’ll fade, most of them, but he thinks the last might be a legitimate burn.  
  
“Sam, want you to talk,” he demands.  
  
For whatever reason, that gets through to him. Sam moves now, tries to tug at his restraints and his heels bunch up the end of their bed sheets. “Yeah?”  
  
He tries not to act relieved. “You okay?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“Gag?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
That’s his thing. His  _new_  thing. Every time lately Sam’s been trying to block out the rest of the world. Not talking’s been added to it. No sight, no speech – Dean’s waiting for him to block out hearing and touch as well. Full fucking body suit or something. For now Dean’s just testing the waters, pushing the boundaries. Using things that may or may not have their _intended purposes_. His gag’s another shirt, bunched so thick Sam can’t even speak around it. Needs a real gag, keeps it in mind for Sammy’s birthday.  _Indulge_  his sexual fantasies.  
  
Because they’re Dean’s, too.  
  
He gets onto the bed, straddles Sam’s legs between his. He’s more aware now – acutely aware – that he’s got a hard-on as strong as it’s ever been. Holds back any sound, focuses instead on the way it feels on denim against skin and pressure coming from Sam’s legs.  _Really fucking good_  is the only words his mind comes up with. He leans across Sam, presses his whole body against his brother’s, and feels Sam. His short, staccato intakes of breath and the way he can’t shift. Powerless. Dean wraps his fingers around the knife handle and brings himself back up to a seated position.  
  
When he’s like this he remembers things. When he’s holding the knife and there’s a body laid out in front of him, already broken in so many ways...and he’s ripping them apart again. He’s back there. But this time he’s allowed to be. This time Sam’s moving whatever part of body he can upwards, pressing harder against the knife, telling Dean with his actions that it’s okay. That it should be happening.  
  
Like always, Dean is lost in this. Lost in his fast breathing and Sam’s lack of sound, of the sight of blood flecking Sam’s body and mixing with the sweat, of the way his dick is pressing hard, harder against his pants and it’s taking everything in him not to rip jeans off and get into Sam right then and there.  
  
Dean’s eyes close and he tells himself to forget, tells himself that it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s got Sam here under him. His hand is shaking and he uses the other to hold it steady, two hands together when the knife digs against the skin of Sam’s arm. That’s the first time he makes a response more than pushing upwards, seems to jolt away, pulls against the restraints hard enough the bed shakes.  
  
Dean stops.

“Sam?”  
  
The knife drops from his hands and he’s off the bed, need for relief forgotten and his hands are still shaking but this time from the current situation – not from the memories, not from letting himself stay somewhere he should have forgotten. It’s led him to forget  _Sam_. And he doesn’t know how the fuck that could ever be possible. He’s up, ignoring the rest of everything, pulling the gag from Sam’s mouth and untying the shirt from around his eyes, hands winding their way into Sam’s hair and just holding his brothers face to his chest.  
  
“S’okay, Sam,” he murmurs, “’m sorry.”  
  
“'m fine, just a scratch.” Sam’s voice is muffled by Dean’s skin.  
  
Dean moves back, releases notches on the belts without his eyes leaving Sam’s. He’s waiting to see something, but Sam’s got some stupid grin plastered to his face that still hasn’t left when his arms are free and move to wrap around Dean’s shoulders. Dean’s letting him, face buried in Sam’s limp and sweaty hair. Stays there until he feels wetness on his back and pulls away, takes Sam’s arm in his hand and his stomach churns when he sees just how bad he’s cut it.  
  
“Jesus, Sammy -- I'm sorry.”   
  
Dean watches Sam look down at his arm with mild interest before tugging Dean closer with the other. Dean wants to let him, wants to pull himself against Sam and just stay there with the rest of everything outside just staying the fuck away. Only his eyes haven’t left Sam’s arm, and the blood’s still flowing.  
  
He’s up, away, too quick for Sam to even move, and digging through his duffle for everything they’ve taught themselves to prepare for with hunts. Patched each other up since he could remember, has some vague thoughts it might be age eight when Sam fell over in the parking lot and Dean was under strict orders not to leave the room. He’s come a long way from too-many band-aids and borderline infections. Now it’s bandages, sewing kits, whiskey, water bottle, and painkillers which may or may not be legal to carry around when you’re a GED holder with no chronic health problems.   
  
“Dean, I’m fine --"  
  
Dean cuts him off with a “shh”, dumping what he needs onto the bed, removing belt straps from his brother’s ankles before letting himself touch against Sam’s chest again. It’s still warm, still coated with sweat and there are flecks of blood brushing themselves across. And Sam’s just lying there with some dopey freaking smile playing around on his face while he’s practically  _bleeding out_ , and that churn of guilt in Dean’s stomach just keeps turning.  
  
“Show me.” Dean reaches out and runs his fingers under the cut. He won’t be able to stitch it, the cuts more awkward than he thought and that makes his heart lodge itself in his throat. He’s usually methodical,  _perfect_ , with these. Somehow, today, he’s slipped up – and on Sam. He takes in a silent, shaky breath.  
  
“It’s fine,” Sam’s murmuring and Dean’s being pulled down against his chest, hands running through his hair and Dean looks up to still see that smile.  
  
“That doesn’t hurt?” Dean gestures toward the cut as best he can, head now pressed to Sam’s chest and Sam’s not letting him move.  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Well, it’s gettin’ all over the sheets.” Dean pulls Sam’s other arm from him and sits up, trying to ignore the pain in Sam’s eyes from it. “Let me wrap it.”  
  
And Sam’s got that stubborn, bitchface firmly planted until Dean washes over the blood with whiskey and ignores that it ruins the sheets. Then there’s a change, Sam’s hand clenching and his face contorting. It’s with that Dean knows Sam’s in a lot more pain than he’s letting on. “S’okay,” he murmurs to no response. He dries the cut, carefully, but every touch he knows is hurting. Finishes it with the bandage and, by this point, Sam’s white, and those burn-marks-that-he-thought-weren’t-burns are an angry red.  
  
He can’t believe he hadn’t noticed this before.

“Sammy, you okay?” He knows he’s not and places the arm back onto the bed, crawling closer to his brother and kissing him. His lips, they’re dry and tacky and Dean balks – tries to think about just how long they’ve been at this, and realises it’s been too long. No matter what the hours say he shouldn’t have forced Sam to be pulled for that long – or to be blindfolded, because his pupils are still dilated and now he’s not even paying enough attention.  
  
“Sam?” He touches his face, runs fingers down Sam’s cheek and Sam turns to him, still white and eyes becoming vacant. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”  
  
And he doesn’t know what else to do, so he just wraps hands through Sam’s hair and pulls him to his chest, holding. If this, if he’s  _hurt_  Sam, it’s not happening again, not gonna let anything happen to Sammy...he closes eyes, tries to get a grip on himself –  _stop acting like such a whiny bitch_  – and says this isn’t about him, isn’t about what he’s done. About Sam.  _Sam_. Repeats it like a mantra until it finally means something to him.  
  
Then he’s aware that Sam’s shaking beneath him, hisses of pain following each breath and Dean knows Sam’s trying to hide it, face pressed hard into his chest, but it just makes things worse. Dean’s aware of every movement, every time Sam’s mouth is clenching down and his chapped lips are pursing against skin.  
  
“Sammy...” Dean murmurs and brings his brother up to see his face, runs fingers across Sam’s cheek and the one burn he’s settled there. Usually avoids the face, but Sam insisted. Wants to take it all away.  
  
He reaches across the bed without looking, picks up the water bottle and unscrews the lid, keeps watching Sam all the while who he knows is struggling to keep his breath natural. They shouldn’t do this, Dean should’ve listened to his gut. Doesn’t know the dangers, what could happen – just listens to Sam and goes by his reactions. And these reactions aren’t good.  
  
“Drink this,” he says.  
  
He has to hold the bottle up because Sam’s shaking too hard now to take it on his own. That injured right arm isn’t even lifting, and, for a split breath-stopping moment, he’s sure there’s nerve damage or  _something_ , but then Sam finally does lift that arm, with a sharp inhale, and pulls Dean closer to him.  
  
“’m fine,” he says, voice all cracked and thick.  
  
“No, you’re not,” Dean responds and he pulls his brother closer.   
  
It’s with this he becomes aware of how cold Sam’s skin is, and how he’s continuing to shake. Shivery movements throughout his body, and short nails being pressed into Dean’s skin. Dean holds, harder, thinks he’s probably hurting Sam because all his muscles are taut and he’s just got Sam against him. But, if it’s hurting, Sam’s not making protest toward him. If anything Dean thinks Sam’s leaning in, leaving chance for Dean to cling closer, closer. His face is buried into Sam’s sweat-flecked hair and he just ignores what should be gross about that. Breathes deeply, presses lips to the hollow of Sam’s neck and feels his racing pulse. Holds onto that, because it means he can keep going.  
  
“Actually kinda hurts...”   
  
Dean doesn’t know if the words are just for Sam or they’re directed toward him, but he hears and they send a stab of pain through all of him. Wraps arms around Sam’s body as tight as they can go and wishes he could just get over all his old memories. Forget it all, shouldn’t want – shouldn’t need – to do this with Sam.  
  
“So sorry,” he murmurs and wishes there was more, but he can’t find words, “So sorry, Sammy.”

He thinks Sam might try to shake his head and keen closer, no space between them now and that cold sweat specked across Sam’s body is coating Dean’s. Doesn’t matter, he’s just holding his brother tight as he can and wanting whatever he did to go away. The bandage is already starting to darken beneath the white, and Dean’s questioning himself – should’ve tried to stitch it, taken him to a hospital, something.   
  
He thinks all of this, but he’s not moving. Can’t really imagine moving, just holds Sam, deals with the random shudders through his body. At some point it hits him that Sam’s probably freezing, finds the overused sheets they threw to the ground earlier and wraps it around the two of them. Makes Sam shift – “c’mere, Sammy” – so they’re in some makeshift cocoon of brother and brother; Sam collected under Dean’s hold and the blanket twisted too many times that Dean wouldn’t know how to get them out. Doesn’t matter, there’s nowhere to be.  
  
Either Sam’s stopped trying to hide it or the pain’s becoming too much,  _(please don’t be the latter, please don’t be the latter)_ , because his fingertips are digging so hard into Dean with each wave Dean’s sure he’s going to bear bruise marks for the rest of the week. Not that he really matters, just hates to know Sam’s hurting.  
  
“S’okay, baby,” he whispers and it doesn’t help, “So sorry I hurt you.”  
  
That’s how they stay. Dean given up on time as he rides through the shudders of pain Sam gives out, the groans when he rises to grip his arm and Dean gently pushes his hand away. Whispers “I got’cha”, “gonna take care of you”. Doesn’t matter if Sam listens or not, they give Dean some grounding to hold onto and makes him think it’s all going to be okay. It’s worse than your average hunting injury, because he caused this one. Sam’s still shaking, and Dean keeps his lips behind his brother’s ear, keeps saying the same things over and over again.  
  
One thing he’s trying to ignore, that’s in the back of his mind where he really hates it for being, is the fact he’s still got jeans pressing uncomfortably into him. Little less annoying is that Sam’s still in the same state with hard-on pressing against Dean’s naked waist. He shifts, just slightly, and Sam cringes against him, fingers digging in.  
  
“Lay down, Sammy,” he murmurs against Sam’s ear.  
  
The movements are slow, awkward, painful and Dean has to help guide his brother down. He cringes with Sam each time, gasps in the painful breaths Sam gasps in, moves like a mirror to Sam until his brother’s laid out on the bed, sheet still contorted around the two of them like a piece of lost loose thread pulling them together at awkward angles and separating them at even worse.

Dean leans against his brother, so very, very careful to avoid his arm and the worst of the burns, and he thinks he’s practically sighing at the contact.  _This, always, always this_. Sam’s still got an arm hooked around his neck and Dean feels the ghost of shivers and clenching pain. Only Sam’s face now isn’t as bad, his eyes closed but he looks placid enough. Dean still doesn’t like the look of that cut, colour moving from dark shadows to rich red. Again he considers the hospital, but Sam’s hand pushes against his neck and finds him into a kiss. Lips are flaky, but his tongue is nowhere near as tacky as before. Dean sighs into Sam’s mouth, lets himself lower completely to Sam’s body after he’s worked a hand between body and jean buttons.  
  
He moves away just enough to murmur a breathless, “yeah?” and to hear Sam’s “yeah” in response, before crashing lips together once more. He moves his hands to Sam’s hips and arches them up toward him. He couldn’t hold back the groan at the touch of friction, but forces his eyes to stay open and watch Sam – make sure he’s okay. Makes sure Sam’s liking this just as much. That his perfect, perfect body Dean’s scarred is getting the same responses. He tries to swallow down the guilt by kissing Sam again, and it’s the only thing that works. Like always, joined bodies and things start falling back into place around them.  
  
He moans into Sam’s mouth and feels the hand around his neck tense. At first he’s prepared to pull back, then there’s the feeling of warmth flowing against his stomach, dick, and thighs, and he’s smiling against Sam’s lips instead. Doesn’t take him any time to follow with a hand worked between them.  
  
Sam’s stoped shaking, the pressure on Dean’s neck and back letting up so he can let out that breath he’s been holding for too long. All of Sam seems to relax, the rigidness of his body leaving as he moulds himself into Dean’s. The sweats seem to have stopped, the shivering reaching a halt. Dean’s taking in deep breaths, pressed against Sam’s neck as his pulse slowly, slowly returns to its normal state.  
  
“You okay?” He murmurs into warm skin.  
  
Sam’s moving in a nod. “Got my big brother to look after me.”


End file.
